The memory of your hands, gutting whitefish, fresh-eyed after the storm. We were hungry for iridescence. Lit by the amber sun- set in the oven, its iron mouth opening wide, steam billowing to meet your bowing head. You bring this warm offering in mother-of-pearl a glisten of sea and sky, as I watch you collect fishbones in a small bowl veined with silver. We are more water than bones, you say, with arms that flutter like terns to chase away flies from our table of daily bread. I mine this memory— a mother lode of hours watching clocks with missing hands packing clothes, linens, china your miniature biographies bundled away, and yet— what remains? Empty plates, empty closets. So much emptiness to bear in the fullness of time.